Haziran 19, 2024

Next Sunday: The Neighborhood Slut

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Cowgirl

A one-off cheating story that introduces the Cheaters Anonymous universe that will be showing up in most of my stories. If adultery is triggering, you should absolutely not read the following.

Hi there. My name is Judas–Jude is fine; if you’re gay, you can call me Judy when I’m being an attention whore. But before I get into being an actual whore, I need to preface.

I’m an all-around good guy. I live in the suburbs in a beautiful minimal home with my husband, Rick. He’s the most fantastic husband in the world, and I love him with all my heart. He works hard so that I can do what I love: being a part-time sex therapist. Aside from helping couples revive their sex lives, move through trauma, or get past an affair, I also like to volunteer, take care of our two Boston terriers, or hang out with my friends–the occasional night out and book club being my favorites.

People know me as sincere, kind, empathetic, and loyal. But they don’t know that I’m a slut–a complete and utter whore who cheats behind his husband’s back and finds it thrilling.

Maybe it’s because of the pressures of being the perfect husband, therapist, friend, or just human, but the rush I get from finding a man, hooking up with a man, and coming home to my none-the-wiser man is when I feel the most alive. I’m fully aware of my egregious sins and how narcissistic my behavior is (I’m a therapist, for Christ’s sake), but once I started, I couldn’t stop.

Rick and I have been married six years, and I only made it through one year–exactly one–before I fell off the wagon, much to my surprise. An old college friend of Harry’s came to visit. He stayed with us in our one-bedroom apartment at the time. He slept on the couch and had no idea that his impressive boner tented his blanket.

One morning I stood over him and, beside myself, I reached out and gently stroked him through the fabric. He was much thicker and noticeably longer than my husband. I was never much of a size queen (and am still not), but the site and feel of a larger dick made my gut warm and my crotch full.

When Rick’s friend shifted in his sleep on the couch, I pulled away but froze, staring at him. He awoke with a stretch and a smile and bid me good morning. I responded in kind, awkwardly, and we went about our days with tension in the year. That was mine and Harry’s first anniversary.

Later that evening, Rick was delayed at work (I know you’d like to think he was cheating on me at the office, but that just wasn’t the case). I was dressed and ready for a nice dinner before getting the text from Harry that he’d be home ASAP and that we wouldn’t miss our late reservation (we planned for this type of snag).

Rick’s friend sat on the couch. He was out as bisexual and had a permanent come-hither demeanor that overshadowed his average body and looks, making him seem like an utter sex magnet.

Our friend brought up my discreet touch that morning, to which I stammered, flustered, and beet red. This Casanova had no problems making the moves on his best friend’s husband. He ended up fucking me after some kissing, groping, and generally nerve-racking foreplay.

He’d pulled down my dress pants far enough to put his spit-lubed cock in my ass. Neither of us brought up condoms–I felt it wouldn’t be nearly as exciting with some sort of barrier. And apparently, so did Casanova.

He said he’d make it quick, to which my heart jumped. Used for another man’s pleasure, it was a transactional affair. Casanova needed to get off, and I was the thing that would help him do it. And do it he did.

He’d pumped his seed in me in maybe a minute (definitely less than 2). It was fast, primal, the worst thing I could do to my marriage, and it felt so good. That night, after having a sensual fuck fest with my doting husband, I thought about Casanova. How thick his cock was, how our clothes were still in as he jumped me to get off, and how we pretended nothing had happened as Rick walked through the door to find me tucking my collared shirt back into my waist. The sex had been animalistic–I felt like a safari lioness during mating season with one purpose–to take a king’s DNA.

Of course, that wasn’t the last time Casanova and I fucked. It was always short bursts. We skipped foreplay after that. He would find me in the apartment and, nary a word, would pull the back of my pants down and fuck me for a few minutes before unloading his spunk. I was his fleshlight and loved all of it.

After he left, presumably moving onto the next couch of an unknowing future adulterer, I knew I lacked something. Sex with Rick had become dull. It felt good, but in the afterglow, I would dream of being used by someone to whom I had no emotional attachment. I felt a void–in my ass and my marriage.

So I downloaded the apps, always careful to stay as discreet as possible, and would delete them once I had my fill for the day. A fellow faceless profile messaged me one day–it was a neighbor in the apartment ankara travesti building–a straight man who just needed a blow job. I didn’t hesitate–I should have, I thought I would have, but my cravings were visceral. They felt as if it was just an evolutionary need. I was in mating season year-round.

All it took was swallowing one load for my neighbor to beg for more. So, every weekday, between therapy clients, I’d go to his apartment and blow him. I’d swallow every time–sometimes under his desk while he worked. In less than ten minutes, I could make it back in time for the next appointment.

For the next few months, my sex life improved with Rick again. He’d come home, and I’d kiss him with the same mouth that sucked our neighbor’s cock. I’d get turned on, and we’d have sex, sometimes twice, each night. I was a secret cum dump and felt I’d found my true calling.

Of course, it didn’t stop at the neighbor. Still young, he had a roommate who, similar to the neighbor, needed an outlet when sex life was dry. I eventually took him on too. Sometimes I’d end up at their apartment twice a day, blowing each of them in their rooms. Ultimately, it progressed to blowing them on the couch side-by-side, to my surprise, as they both claimed to be straight. They never touched each other but became comfortable using me as a faggot cocksucker. They took to facefucking me, competing to see who could get their dick deeper down my throat, who could get me to hold my breath the longest. They laughed when I struggled or gagged. What was once just a five-minute blow job on the regular became sometimes daily hour-long sessions of total throat abuse. Harry would be appalled–that I was cheating and being roughhoused and used like a slab of meat–but I knew, deep in my soul, that I couldn’t be monogamous. I need different cocks inside me; need to have secrets; need to have an endless flow of cum.

Of course, the blow jobs eventually progressed to fucking. A lot of spit roasting and even double penetration. The barriers of sexual labels were punted for an hour each day while these two young straight studs used me for their pleasure. It felt right–it felt correct. And the guilt never came.

Naturally, my sluttiness snowballed from there. Random hook-ups abounded. I found many partnered men–a winning combination that ensured no one’s situation changed. In the past five years, I’ve lost count of how many men have used my holes. Last I counted, I was at 243 men by year three of my cheating. You think I’d have gotten bored, but the urge gets stronger as the years go on. I’ve gotten sloppier trying to hide my infidelity, sometimes not even taking a shower after being used by another man. Sometimes I forget to squeeze the last load out of my ass, but Rick just thinks I’ve pre-lubed. If he can smell another man’s cock on my breath, he’s never said anything. So I don’t stop. Because the guilt never came.

Once we moved to the suburbs, finding an adultery partner would become difficult. My days of being ass up, blindfolded in our bed, were done. Every man interested in me on the apps was in the city. I’d occasionally make an excuse to hang out with “friends,” but instead satisfied my cheating cravings. I missed the ability to have daily hook-ups. No other men were filling my stomach or intestines with cum. Harry noticed my depressive state. He tried everything he could to comfort me and make me feel loved, heard and cared for, but I felt as if I was withering away under the boredom of faithfulness. But things suddenly changed.

Harry was a churchgoer. Perhaps it was muscle memory for attending church throughout his youth, but he couldn’t live life without Sunday morning with a bible. Myself an atheist, I rarely went with him, and I had previously used Sundays for trysts behind his back. But in the suburbs, I sat in the living room, tired, hunched, and crusty-eyed, scouring the apps for anyone nearby. Every Sunday.

A faceless profile reached out to me about three months into suburban life (and six weeks since my last adulterous encounter). He was mere feet away. My heart jumped, and butterflies fluttered in my gut. Of course, there was no guarantee this man would follow through on a meet-up, but beggars can’t be choosers. It was worth the shot.

It turned out he was my neighbor. A man named Ulrich. When he sent me his photos, I recognized him immediately. He was impossible to ignore–he immigrated from Germany, was very tall, blonde-haired with blue eyes, and sported a swimmer’s build. Pink-skinned from the summer sun, his muscles were defined but stretched across his long limbs and torso.

Ulrich is married to a woman and has a girlfriend. They call it a “throuple.” Although polyamorous with two women, he was also into men. All three of them had free reign to sleep with whomever they wanted. Admittedly, it wasn’t as exciting as hooking up with a fellow partnered man, but I wasn’t going to complain.

He told me his partners were home, ankara travestileri so I offered to host for more privacy. I didn’t want many people to know I was cheating on my man.

I got ready fast, and when I opened the door, Ulrich stood tall and imposing, wearing a tank top and shorts. He smiled, and the blonde scruff around his jaw moved with it. I was finally going to get some.

He noticed the wedding photo on the fire mantle and asked about Rick. I was upfront, not skipping a beat, and said, “He doesn’t know. And that turns me on.”

Ulrich stood quietly. His shorts were tented, and a kind smile slowly spread across his face. “That turns me on too.”

I let Ulrich have whatever he wanted, and he wanted it all. You’d think that being so tall would have meant he had a big dick, but it was just average and length and girth, but, my oh my, did he know how to use it.

That first day, while my husband knelt at a pew, Ulrich pounded my ass, fucked my mouth, made me take his cock from my ass to my mouth, came inside me, and then squeezed his load onto the floor and licked it up. He asked me whose cock I liked more, and every time I answered, “Yours,” in between harsh breaths.

For a few weeks, this was our routine. Every Sunday morning, he would come over and use me the way I was made to be used–the way my husband could never use me. And each time became naughtier. We would fuck in my marital bed; he’d cum on my wedding ring while it rested on my tongue or make me push his load onto Rick’s pillow. It became more sinister as time passed, and I felt no remorse. I should have. But the guilt never came.

Rick was typically gone for about an hour and a half, but his Sunday outings turned into 2 hours, then 3 hours as the weeks went by. Of course, I wasn’t going to complain. My husband unknowingly gave me a more comfortable buffer to cheat with Ulrich.

But things took a turn–for the best. While waiting for Ulrich’s typical Sunday morning message, I perused the app, ogling men who were too far away to hook up. I received a message from a blank profile that was nearby.

He was glib in his responses and cut to the chase. He was horny, the wife was still asleep after a night out with friends, and his step-sons had just left for college. He needed to put his dick in a hole, so I told him I had a couple made just for that purpose.

We didn’t share any pictures. I’ve said before I’m not a size queen, and I might mention that, although I stay as slim, fit, and bubble-butted as possible, I have no preference in body type. I like cheating, whether with a hairy otter, a muscular jock, or an overweight retiree–I find it sexy to be used behind Rick’s back. It’s as simple as that.

We agreed to meet up as soon as he got dressed and showered. I gave him my address and got no response. Flakes are part of the game, but I got ready anyway. Not 20 minutes later, I hear a knock on the door. I open it to a familiar but nameless face. I tried to hide my shock–it was my neighbor from across the street, next door to Ulrich.

He didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping inside as he said, “I’m Mike,” and pulled down his workout pants to reveal a hairy crotch and soft, low-hanging cock and balls.

“I’m Jude,” I replied, still stunned while I slowly closed the door. Mike was my height (about 5’8″ if that matters to you) and must have been Latino as his skin was the color of caramel, his short-cropped hair dark and thick. He’d come over shirtless, as he usually did while working on his car or yard. This morning, I realized he’d chosen me over his gorgeous, blonde, model wife. His gold wedding ring glinted in the refracted ray of the morning sun that beamed through the front-door window. I swear I wasn’t drooling.

Still in the foyer, I rubbed his chest. Mostly smooth, he had dark hair around his nipples, a tuft on his sternum, and a trail from his belly button to the bush that engulfed his crotch. His pecs were small but perky; his arms solid and sturdy; his torso bore a small pudge–maybe from beer–and I was in heaven.

But he wasn’t here for foreplay or romantic touch. He took my wrists in his calloused hands and said, “I’m not gay.”

He let go of me and put one hand on the top of my head, pushing me down with the force of a man who pushed a manual lawn mower weekly. It wasn’t the first time a man had treated me this way. I took the hint and didn’t resist.

He took his cock in one hand while the other gripped the crown of my head and shoved it in my mouth. Flaccid, it was long and much longer when hard. After years of sucking many cocks of many shapes and sizes, no cock was imposing. Mike wasn’t the most enormous cock I’ve had inside me, but it was a blissful challenge nonetheless. He facefucked me. His schlong’s sharp curve to the right made me gag, but I took it all with tears streaming down my face while I moaned.

Rick was beginning services, and I’d just started servicing. Mike treated me like travesti ankara a pornstar treats a cocksucking bitch. My head in both of his hands, he used my mouth like a fleshlight, with no regard for me whatsoever. He used my throat to give his cock long strokes, then rammed me like he was fucking a whore’s pussy. He kept calling me a “fucking slut,” who would “do anything for cock.” If I had been able to argue, I wouldn’t have.

My thick saliva dripped from his balls to the floor–I’d have to remember to clean that up. And just before he demanded my ass, he made me take those swollen low-hangers in my mouth, filling my cheeks. I looked at him, my face wet with tears and spit, my eyes bloodshot and face puffy from lack of oxygen.

He put his hands under my arms. His balls slipped out of my mouth as he lifted me in the way only a man who hates holding babies could. He dragged me to the arm of the couch, turned me around, and shoved my back as my body flung over the couch’s side. My abdomen recoiled in pain from the impact. And now my ass was exposed.

Please remember that I’m a slut. And I’m proud of it. No denying who you are for society’s morals or anyone else–including your partner. So when my ass (which looks deceptively tight, pink, and puckered) opened quickly for this rough motherfucker, he did not attempt to lube any further. The friction, the slight stinging, signaled to my brain that I was just an object for a superior man.

Mike used my ass just as roughly as he had my throat. He asked me if I liked a real man pounding my boipussy, to which the answer was resounding, “Yes!”

I was his toy, a toy that he was more than happy to break, like a sinister toddler. But he couldn’t hurt me. He didn’t know my history, but he fucked me as if he thought I’d never received a more brutal fucking in my life, and I was more than happy to oblige his assumption. He pounded and spanked me, punched the small of my back, said terrible things through gritted teeth, and, without warning, came inside me. I felt his balls on my taint as his cock unloaded in my colon. The greatest joy of getting fucked by a long cock is that they breed you so deep that it stays in your ass much longer–it’s much easier to hide, especially around a husband.

As soon as he pulled out, he said, “Clean it off.”

I knew what he meant. I turned around, ass sore, abdomen in dull pain from being pressed into the couch arm, and sucked his cock clean of spit and cum.

“Thank you,” I said, shoulders heaving from the quick marathon fucking.

Mike pulled up his pants, turned to the door, and on his way out said, “Next week.”

And that was that.

Ulrich had messaged me while I was getting fucked. I replied, telling him I had been busy. I sat on the couch, naked, sweating–an utterly chaotic mess. My heartbeat thudded in my ears as I waited for his response.

“No worries. On my way.”

For the first time in months, I’d finally be getting more than one load on the side. I jerked off for only a minute before the front door opened.

Ulrich slammed the door shut. His eyes scanned my body as I stood from the couch to greet him. My cock, a bit above average, curved towards the ceiling, leaking precum from my quick jerk session. My hair must have been messy, and my face likely still bore the signs of battle wounds because Ulrich’s eyes got wide, his mouth agape as he asked, “Busy morning?”

I didn’t answer. I walked to Mike, knelt, and took his cock in my mouth.

“Was Mike over here?” Ulrich asked in between sighs of pleasure. “I thought I saw him leave here.”

I didn’t answer. I kept sucking Mike’s average cock was easier to take after the abuse of Mike’s long member. I slammed my face into Ulrich’s crotch, my nose hitting the soft flesh above his dick. I could have sworn I felt the bridge of my nose crack. I was doing the work for him, the masochist that I am.

Ulrich groaned, momentarily distracted by the service I gave him. I took his cock to the hilt, buried my nose in him, and stuck out my tongue to lick his balls while his cock head pressed into the back of my throat.

Half in a dream state, Ulrich pried again. “Was Mike here?”

I took Ulrich’s hand and led him down the hallway to mine and Rick’s bedroom. In one fell swoop, I jumped on the bed, landing on all fours, my beet red ass in the air at the bed’s edge.

“You’re red,” Ulrich said, positioning himself behind me. My hole was still wet with saliva from Mike’s pounding. I felt the tip of Ulrich’s dick caress my hole, then gently press against it. I was still raw and loose from Mike. Ulrich had to have noticed. Slowly at first, his raw cock slid in easily. Ulrich sighed, then picked up his pace and fucked me hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

I looked at the bedside table–a picture of Rick and me on our wedding day, exchanging a sweet peck. I felt in my core how much I loved him–and in my ass, how much I loved cheating on him–what a paradoxical mess.

“What the fuck….” Ulrich mumbled. He pulled out of me. I angled my body to see frothy liquid gathering at the base of his cock.

“There’s your answer,” I whispered amid a grin.

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